


Untold Secrets

by zanarkand



Series: Waiting [1]
Category: Digimon - All Media Types, Digimon Adventure Zero Two | Digimon Adventure 02
Genre: Anal Sex, Graphic descriptions, M/M, Oral Sex, Present Tense, Sexual Abuse, Stabbing, Suicide Attempt, alternating first person POV
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2001-06-21
Updated: 2001-06-21
Packaged: 2017-10-20 17:28:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,791
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/215232
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zanarkand/pseuds/zanarkand
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Someone is hurting Yamato very badly. Yet Yamato is afraid to reveal his tormentor. Can he manage to speak that one name before it costs him his life?</p>
<p>This is a rewrite of a very old story, originally published in 2001.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Untold Secrets

**Author's Note:**

> One thing of note—this story takes place when Yamato is seventeen.
> 
> I also took out all the really stupid scenes and attempted to fix the logic holes, though I still followed the general path of the old version.

"Yamato, please, just tell me why you did it. I won't be mad, I just want a reason."

_Your entire body, your pathetic excuse for a life, it's all worthless. You're mine, Ishida. That's the sole purpose of your existence. You live for no other reason. Got that?_

Dad stares down at me, waiting, but I just bite down on my lip and don't answer.

"Yamato, please," Dad begs me. "I need to know. Did something happen to you? Is it something I've done? Some reason you're not happy?"

I shake my head no to all of those.

_You tell anybody, Yamato, and you're as good as dead. Remember, this is our little secret. If anybody else finds out, let's just say, you'll be getting up close and personal with ten inches of cold steel._

"Yamato, please tell me."

_And don't think you can try to get out of this either. You belong to me, and I'll be damned if I'll let you go._

"Dad... please—please don't tell anyone I tried to kill myself," I whisper.

He reaches out and brushes some stray hairs away from my forehead, looking relieved that I'm finally speaking to him. "Yamato, who would I tell other than your brother? I just want to know a reason why, that's all."

I shake my head. "I can't tell you. Please don't tell anyone, not even Takeru."

"Just promise me you won't do it again. Or that you won't try another method. If you start thinking about it, come to me first. Or your brother. Or Taichi. Anyone." He pauses for a moment, swallowing. "I can't lose you, Yamato. You and Takeru are all I have left. I couldn't stand it if anything happened to either of you."

I feel tears stinging my eyes at that. "I promise," I say softly, reluctantly. I'm not at all sure whether I can really keep my promise, but what else can I say to something like that?

* * *

Funny, it seems, how the day had started out so normally. I woke up, had my coffee, saw Yamato off to school, went to work and then just generally went about my day. The usual, at least until I came home this evening to find my son lying unconscious on his bed and bleeding out from his wrists.

Now I'm staring down at him in a different bed, trying to figure out what could cause him to do something like that.

His doctor said he was lucky. That he'd cut across his wrists and not down his arms along the veins. Had he done it properly, I might have been staring down at him lying in a coffin.

At least he promised he wouldn't do it again. Even if he was lying, it's something.

Just then there's a knock at the door. Yamato's doctor, Dr. Kaos, sticks his head inside the room. "Mr. Ishida, may I speak to you for a moment?"

"Of course." I step outside, shutting the door back behind me. "What is it?"

"Hiroaki... when Yamato was being stitched up earlier, one of the nurses noticed something." He shifts slightly. "There appeared to be faint traces of semen around and in his mouth, along with what might have been faded bruises on his upper torso. It prompted us to do a more thorough examination once we got him stable."

"What are you saying?" I can hardly get the words out; my mouth has gone completely dry.

"I'm saying there's a possibility he might have been raped. There was evidence suggesting anal intercourse, though whether it was consensual or forced is inconclusive. There were more bruises, some tearing and a bit of bleeding. It's possible he just had rough sex, but the fact that he's lying in a hospital bed with stitched wrists makes me suspicious."

"No." No, this can't be happening.

"Hiroaki—"

"No. He's seventeen. He's a boy. Boys sometimes get caught up, don't think, they get eager—I didn't know that he liked boys, but—no. He couldn't have been raped. It's impossible."

"It can happen to both girls _and_ boys. I'm not saying it's a sure thing, but I did want you to be aware of the possibility. I'm sorry."

"I... Oh God." I feel sick. Heartsick, and sick to my stomach. Yamato, raped? Who could do something like that? To my son, my baby boy? Who could be so sick and cruel as to hurt him that way?

I hope with all my heart that it was consensual. Hell of a way to find out my son liked boys, but I could be okay with that. Love's what matters, right? He can sleep with as many guys as he wants, as long as he wasn't forced into it.

Please just let him have been a willing participant.

* * *

I watch listlessly as my dad walks back into my room, his face solemn. He looks upset. More upset than he had before he left. I wonder what Dr. Kaos could have said to him.

He sinks heavily down into the chair beside my bed, not saying anything for a long while.

I inwardly shrug. Right now, the less he says to me, the better. I'm in no mood to talk about anything.

"Yamato, the doctors found some things earlier..." I don't speak, so he continues. "They found some evidence suggesting... It suggested you recently had sex. With another male."

No. No no _no_. "I haven't," I say, trying to stay calm, but my voice trembles when I speak.

"Yamato, they said there was—was semen. In your mouth." My dad's not looking at me.

_You better swallow every single drop when I come, otherwise there will be dire consequences you really don't want to know about._

I swear I can actually feel myself going pale. No one was supposed to know, I wasn't supposed to tell, _how did they find out_?

_You tell anybody, and you're as good as dead._

"Dr. Kaos thought, well, he said you might have been forced into it. That it wasn't—consensual." My dad sounds so awkward.

"No," I whisper. I can't tell. I'm not about to let myself die by _his_ hands.

"No, it wasn't forced, or no, it wasn't consensual?"

My head is pounding. I want some aspirin. I want to curl up into a little ball and wish myself far away from everything. "No," I say again, helplessly.

"No."

* * *

I'm not going to get an answer out of him. And I can't even take his lack of answer as an indicator for either choice. He could be refusing because he's embarrassed to let me know he likes guys, or because he's ashamed or afraid from being raped. There's really no way to tell.

I wish he would just tell me. I'm so afraid and worried and _hurt_. Why won't he tell me? Does he not trust me? Does he think that I would hate him, or be disgusted by him? Or is it something else keeping him from speaking? Did someone threaten him and scare him into not telling?

Dammit! I just want answers!

Angrily, I turn and punch the wall nearest me as hard as I can, then lean my head against it, feeling as if I wanted to cry. My hand is throbbing now, but I don't even care.

I don't understand anything. And worse, I have no idea what to do. If Yamato was raped... how do I handle something like that? Who could be sick enough to do such a thing to him? Would it have been someone he knows, or would he be just another victim of some random, senseless act?

And if the sex was unrelated, then what? I'll be completely back on square one, not knowing what caused him to attempt suicide. And either way, there's the worry that he'll try it again. How does one go about suicide-proofing their house?

I wish he would talk to me.

* * *

Two days. I've been out of the hospital and at home for two days, and I'm about to go crazy. Dad won't let up. He keeps questioning me. I think he's trying to convince himself that I'm gay, because it's better than thinking your son was...

If only he realized that both things are true.

At least I convinced him to go back to work today. I had to promise him my firstborn to get him to go, but now I've finally got some peace.

Of course, this also means that I'm alone with my thoughts and fears. I wish I could call Taichi over, but that would mean he'd see the bandages on my wrists... I don't want him to know what I did to myself. He's at school anyways, where I almost wish I was, because at least then I could feel safe.

I hate that I can't feel safe in my home now. If only I had never given him a copy of our key. I'd like to change the locks, but Dad would wonder, and what's to say he wouldn't find a way to get in anyways? Hell, all he'd have to do is flash that knife of his and I'd open up in a heartbeat.

A key turning in the lock of the front door interrupts me, and my head jerks up, eyes widening. My heart starts pounding, mouth going completely dry. Speak of the devil. I want to get up, to run somewhere, to scream, to cry, but I do none of these things. Instead, I sit frozen on the sofa, only watching as he steps into the room and shuts the door behind him.

He smiles at me as he steps towards me, but it's not a friendly smile. No, it's a cold, menacing smile, and somehow I know, just _know_ , that he knows, that he knew before he even came over.

"So Yamato, I hear you did a very stupid thing the other day. "

Instinctively, I shrink back, watching him and waiting, my terror heightening as each step he takes brings him closer towards me.

"Yes, a very stupid thing," he murmurs, standing next to me now. "Were you really that desperate to get away from me? I thought we were friends," he says mock sadly. "And you brought this upon yourself," he adds, suddenly vicious.

I don't answer him, and I'm caught off guard when he swiftly reaches down and grabs my right wrist. I cry out as he squeezes, putting pressure on the wound, and the pain brings tears to my eyes.

"Didn't I tell you that you're mine?" he shouts, twisting my wrist backwards slightly. "Didn't I tell you couldn't get out of this, that I won't let you go? Didn't I?!" He presses harder, and I let out a small whimper. I can feel blood snaking down my arm. He must have popped the stitches.

"I told you, Yamato. Your body, your life, is mine. All mine, and no one else's. That's why you exist. To belong to me. That's why you live. For me. Now tell me. Tell me you understand perfectly. Tell me you won't do something so stupid again."

Crying openly now, I open my mouth to tell him, if only to get him to _let go of my wrist_ , but before I can get any words out, he presses back even farther on my wrist and I find myself letting out a quick, shrill scream of intense pain as a loud snap pierces through the air.

Momentarily surprised, he lets go of my wrist, and I fall back into the couch, crying and cradling my wrist to my chest, trying not to pass out from the pain. My wrist. He's broken my wrist.

From the way he quickly recovers and then smiles at me, I can tell he knows it too.

"Oops. Did I hurt you, Yamato? Here, I have an idea that you will feel better," he says, smirking. Roughly, he reaches over and yanks me to my feet, using my broken wrist to do so. The sudden movement sends jagged bolts of pain racing up and down my arm, and I scream.

Still smirking, he starts to undo my jeans, and I begin to tremble, knowing what's coming. I want to fight him off, but I'm scared and I'm hurt, and ultimately I know it won't do any good. Dad won't be home for hours. Most of the other building tenants are at work or school. There's no one to save me.

Eventually, with a little reluctant help from me, I'm standing before him nude. He's still fully clothed, but I know that doesn't matter. He never undresses, only shoves down his jeans as far as necessary when he's ready.

He looks me up and down slowly for a moment, humming in approval. I flush with shame and anger, hating that he's treating me like a piece of meat on display. Then he begins to gently trail his fingers down the length of my cock, teasing me.

I close my eyes, trying to will myself anywhere but here. His touch feels good, and I hate myself for it. He wraps his palm around me, stroking slowly, and despite myself, I'm starting to become aroused. It's not the first time, and it's probably not the last, but each time it happens I hate myself a little more. I wish I could stop it, wish I could make my body not react, but no matter what it always does. It doesn't help that he knows this and takes advantage of it, purposely working to get me hard before he has his way with me.

When I'm completely hard and he's satisfied, he lets go of me. I open my eyes again, watching for what's to come next.

But it's not what I'm expecting. Instead, he grins at me, a very unpleasant grin, and gestures to my erection. "You seem to have a little problem there, Yamato. Why don't you take care of it?"

Huh? I stare at him, not sure if I'm understanding him correctly. Does he want me to jerk myself off?

"Come on, Yamato. I don't have all day here. I want to see you make yourself come, and I mean now!" he shouts impatiently, his voice rising on the last word. "Don't forget I have a knife," he warns.

I can feel my cheeks flush hot with embarrassment and anger, but I reach down with my left hand to do as he says. It's a little awkward, using a hand I'm not used to, but somehow I manage. I try to do it as swiftly as possible, willing myself to come so I can end this humiliation.

It doesn't take long, and soon I'm coming, shooting out onto my hand and the floor. For a few moments the only sound in the room is my harsh panting as I fight to come down fast from the high of orgasm.

I want to be dead.

When I've caught my breath I look towards him, and I'm surprised to find him with his jeans undone and his cock out, lazily stroking himself.

"I thought we'd try another attempt at something from last time," he says, not even acknowledging my little masturbation show. "You're going to suck me again, and this time when I come, you _will_ swallow every drop. You will not spit any out. Do you understand?"

I nod, more hot tears pricking at my eyes, but I refuse to give him the satisfaction of crying. I've done enough of that in front of him already. I drop to my knees when he motions, and he grabs a handful of my hair, pulling me forward until my head is right in front of his crotch. I stare at the erection in front of my face, feeling sick. I don't want to do this.

" _Now_ ," he says, voice cold.

After another moment of hesitation, I open my mouth and lean forward, wrapping my lips around just the head and sucking lightly.

" _Yes_ ," he moans, and tries to push himself in deeper. "More. And use your tongue."

I do as he says, feeling a wave of nausea roll over me when I touch my tongue to his slit and the salty taste of his precome immediately floods my mouth.

I try to think about anything other than what I'm doing as I suck him, but I'm all too aware of everything when he starts instinctively thrusting into my mouth, driving his cock deeper down my throat. I gag and nearly choke, fighting more waves of nausea, but he doesn't let up.

After what feels like an eternity he's coming, spilling down my throat. I remember his words and start swallowing, though it's taking everything in me to not throw it all back up. It tastes disgusting, warm and salty with a weird aftertaste. I want to spit it back in his face.

He forces me to lick him clean, and then finally he's leaving, his limp cock slipping out of my mouth. I'm humiliated and ashamed and _angry_ , and I want desperately to cry. I want this to stop. I want to tell someone without having to fear for my life. I want to go back in time and tell someone after the first time it happened, instead of brushing it off and saying it was okay.

I want this nightmare to end. But as he pushes me down on the floor, onto all fours and lines himself up behind me, well, I'm starting to think it'll never end.

* * *

I shut the door behind me with a sigh, exhausted after another strenuous day at the station. More so because I've been worried about Yamato all day, wondering how he was doing by himself, hoping I wouldn't come home to a repeat of a few days ago.

I shed my coat and flip the light switch, wanting nothing more than to relax on the couch with a cold beer and some mind numbing tv. Instead, I let out a choked cry at the sigh that greets me.

Yamato's huddled into a little ball in the middle of the floor, completely naked and trembling. His clothes are scattered around him, and there's some vomit on his shirt. I don't know how I didn't notice the smell when I walked in. He's also crying silently, rocking back and forth slightly, and there's dried blood streaking down his right arm.

"Oh God," I breathed out. "Yamato!" I rush over and crouch down next to him, gently laying a hand on his left arm. "Yamato?"

He doesn't react. I'm not sure he even realizes I'm there.

"Yamato?" I try again. "Come on, buddy, speak to me. It's alright, you're okay now." I continue to speak to him softly, calmly, and gradually he starts to respond.

"Dad?" he says, looking up at me, and there's so much fear and pain in his eyes, my heart aches for him. There's no doubt in my mind now, whoever Yamato had sex with, it wasn't consensual. Some sick monster has been hurting— _raping_ —my boy, enough to force him to suicide.

"Yeah, it's me, buddy," I say to him quietly. "Come on, let's get you off this floor, huh?"

He bites down on his lip, and nods.

Between the two of us we manage to get him standing, and I grab a blanket off the back of the couch for him to wrap up in. I head to his room briefly and get him some fresh clothes. He takes them from me gratefully, both of us ignoring the ones lying on the floor.

I turn my back while he dresses, closing my eyes when I hear whimpers of pain coming from him. I realize suddenly that I'm _angry_. Angry that someone's hurt him, angry that he won't tell me anything, angry that I couldn't protect him from it...

The last thing Yamato needs is for me to be angry right now though. I take a deep breath and count to ten in my head, calming myself. When I feel it's under control, I turn back around and attempt to smile reassuringly at him. I'm sure I fail, but oh well.

"I think we need to get you back to hospital," I tell him.

Immediately his eyes widen and he shakes wildly, strands of hair flying every which way. "No! Not again! No more hospital!"

"Yamato, you're hurt," I say.

"I'm fine."

"You should at least get your wrist looked at," I point out reasonably. "I saw dried blood, which suggests to me that your stitches came undone."

"I'm fine," he says again. "Just bandage my wrist, it's nothing."

"You risk more infection that way... come on, it'll just be a quick trip down, we'll get your wrist re-stitched and bandaged and then come right back home, I promise."

"No!" he shouts. He jumps out, and begins to retreat towards the hallway. "I'm not going, and you can't make me! No more hospital!"

I stare at him, rather surprised. He seems on the verge of panicking, and I can't begin to fathom why. I let out a sigh, and rub my forehead. I'm getting a headache.

"Alright," I say at last. "How about this: I give Akira a call, and see if he'd be willing to come look you over. If he says you're fine, we'll just bandage you up and stay home. But if he says you need to go back to the hospital, then we're going back without argument. Agreed?"

He looks at me, confusion written all over his face. "You'd have Dr. Kaos come here?"

"It wouldn't be the first time," I remind him. "He came over a few times when you were younger and sick with the flu."

"Yeah, but..." he trails off.

"We've been friends for a long time, Yamato, and he's known you most of your life. He cares about you. If I ask, he'll come over."

He gives a little half-shrug. "Fine, call him," he mumbles.

Relief washes over me. I know that once Akira gets here, it won't take him long to agree with me that Yamato should go back to the hospital. I glance down at my watch. It's after seven. He's probably at home by now.

I go over to the phone and impatiently dial his number. He answers on the second ring.

"Kaos residence, Kaos speaking."

"Akira, it's Hiroaki. Can you do me a favour?"

"Of course," he says warmly. "Anything. What is it?"

"I think Yamato's managed to pop the stitches on one of his wrists, but he's refusing to go back to the hospital. Any chance you could come over and give a look?"

"Think?" he says, and then immediately after, "Never mind. I'll be there. Give me twenty minutes."

"No problem. Thank you so much."

The twenty minutes pass slowly. I sit down on the couch next to Yamato, wanting to say something to him, but not knowing where to start. I look over to his clothes still on the floor and briefly consider doing something about them, but then decide to leave them.

At last there's the knock I'm waiting for. I get up and let him in, saying "Thanks for coming, and sorry for the trouble."

"It's no trouble," he reassures me. He looks over at my son, sitting on the couch so forlornly. "Hello, Yamato. I hear you had a little trouble with your stitches."

Yamato just shrugs at him.

* * *

I don't want to be here. It seems to be a common theme in my life lately. But I don't want Dr. Kaos looking at my wrist. And I don't want my dad here. I can't believe I zoned out for so long after _he_ left. I didn't mean for Dad to come home and find me like that. I'm sure he's got a good idea of what happened to me now, even if he hasn't said anything about it.

"Mind if I take a look?"

I shrug again. "If you insist," I mutter sullenly. He comes over to me and I slowly extend my arm towards him, wincing as the movement jars my broken bones. I know it won't take him long to figure out there's more wrong than just the stitches.

He crouches down in front of me and begins to inspect my wound. It doesn't escape his notice that my whole wrist is swollen and puffy, either. Not to mention the odd angle it's bent at, and the fact that there are finger-shaped bruises around it.

"Well, Yamato, your dad is right. You need to go back to the hospital," he says a few minutes later, standing back up.

"What? No!" I cry. "Can't you just fix it here?"

"Well, I could probably stitch up the wound, although it would hurt like hell, but I don't have any way of setting and plastering the broken wrist."

I wince and close my eyes momentarily, even as I hear Dad going "What!" in the background. "It's... it's nothing," I say feebly.

"A very painful nothing, I'm sure," Dr. Kaos replies dryly.

"Alright," Dad says. "That's it. We're going back to the hospital then. No arguments. That was the deal, remember?"

I nod and swallow down the rest of my protests. I know I'm just being stupid anyways. I can't exactly walk around the rest of my life with a broken wrist. I know I have to go back to the hospital, and I don't know why I expected Dr. Kaos to say different.

It just that somehow he found out before, even though I told no one, and I'm afraid if I go back he'll find out again, and think I said something this time, or told the truth, and he'll get mad...

"Yamato?"

"Okay," I say quietly. "Alright. I'll go. Can I at least shower first?" I don't want to chance them examining me anywhere else again and finding more... evidence. Besides, I do feel pretty dirty. I can still feel him on me, in me, all over. I need to wash it away. I need to be clean.

"Shower?" Dad asks incredulously, but Dr. Kaos holds up a hand toward him.

"It's fine," he says, smiling warmly at me. "Go ahead. We'll wait. Just be careful with that wrist."

"Right," I mumble, and flee the room.

* * *

As soon as he's gone and we can hear the water running, Akira turns toward me. "What happened?" he asks immediately.

I sigh and walk back to the couch, sitting down heavily. I bury my head in my hands for a moment, trying to will away the pain in my head and the ache in my heart.

"Hiroaki?" he asks gently.

I lift my head back up. "I don't actually know. I left him home... he convinced me to go to work. He called me a few times, to check in. He seemed fine. But I came home and found him huddled up on the floor naked and trembling. His clothes were..." I motion towards them.

"I had noticed them."

"I just don't know," I say helplessly. "He won't say anything. I didn't even bother to ask him about this. I... I didn't even realize his wrist was broken. I wouldn't have known there was anything wrong with it if I hadn't spotted the blood."

"It isn't your fault."

"I shouldn't have left him home alone."

"You had no way of knowing something like that could happen."

"I suspected. _You_ suspected."

"I suspected he was raped. A one-time thing. I didn't suspect ongoing sexual abuse. Neither I _nor you_ had any way of knowing it wasn't safe to leave him home alone."

"I'm his father," I whisper. "I should be able to protect him."

"Sometimes you can't protect them from everything."

How well I know it.

* * *

By the time we reach the hospital, my wrist is throbbing and screaming in pure agony. Every little bump in the road the car went over sent little sparks of pain shooting through my arm. I want nothing more than to pass out just so I can stop feeling it.

"Alright there, Yamato?" Dad asks me. We're sitting in a private exam room, waiting on Dr. Kaos to come back and let us know he's ready for me.

I shake my head. "Hurts," I say hoarsely.

Dad looks pained at this. "I know, buddy. I'm sorry. Just a little longer. We'll get it fixed."

I let out a half laugh, half sob sort of thing at that. If only it could be that easy.

  
A few hours later finds me in another hospital bed. There was no real medical reason to admit me, but Dr. Kaos made up some reason about wanting to observe me and make sure I didn't develop an infection. He and Dad seem to think I'll be safer staying here.

I did try to protest, to argue that it would be worse for me to stay in the hospital, but they didn't listen. They don't believe me because they don't understand. Without telling them the truth, I can't make them see why staying in the hospital is bad, that it'll only make _him_ angry if he can't get at me, and that'll he probably hurt me worse when I finally go back home.

So they stuck me in a room, gave me some painkillers, and told me to rest. I gave up protesting, and now I'm lying here on my side, curled up into myself and trying not to cry. Dad left a little while ago to go find the cafeteria and grab some food, so I'm completely alone.

I just want everything to be done and over with. I want him to stop hurting me. I wish with all my heart that I hadn't said, "It's okay," after that first time, because it really _wasn't_ okay. But we'd been so close, and I didn't want to change or lose that friendship. And I stupidly believed him when he said he hadn't meant it, that he was sorry and it'd never happen again.

Why, oh why, had I said it was okay? Why had I trusted him so easily again, enough to let him back into my house, into my room...

I want to tell someone, but I'm so scared. Scared of him finding out, scared of what he might do... scared that Dad won't be able to protect me from him.

Scared that no one will believe me.

I don't want my friends to think that I'm lying, or just trying to get him in trouble or something. I don't really want them to know at all, but if I tell Dad, I'm sure it would get out to everyone else somehow.

God, this isn't fair. I hate this, I hate it all, hate everything... This was never what I wanted.

I begin to sob softly, feeling so worn out and worthless, and eventually I cry myself to sleep.

  
It's the constant throbbing of my wrist that wakes me.

I open my eyes to the late afternoon sun reluctantly, already wishing that I was at home, at school... anywhere but this damn hospital.

I look around the room, only a little surprised to find myself alone. Perhaps with me here Dad felt safe enough to go back to work.

Then _he_ steps out of the bathroom, and I nearly throw up. _What the hell._

I can already feel myself beginning to tremble. "Wh—what are you doing here?" I manage to croak out. _And how did you know I was here?_ I add silently.

He grins. "I hung around after I left. I was interested to note your visitor, and decided to follow when you three left. Funnily enough it led me here." He comes over, and leans in close to me. His voice is lower when he speaks again, more rough. "You better not have told them anything," he says menacingly. "And you better be out of this hospital by tomorrow afternoon."

"I didn't tell!" I cry. "I didn't say anything!" But by then I'm only speaking to the small fake ivy plant on the bedside table. He's already gone.

I swallow, tears pricking at my eyes.

  
Dad comes after work, and I do my best to convince him to let me leave the hospital.

"Please, Dad. I feel fine! I'm okay now, I don't need to be here. It's only tying up a bed and racking up more money. And it's boring here, there's nothing to do! I just want to go home. I'll be fine there. Please let me leave!"

"I'm sorry, Yamato, I just don't feel safe having you home alone right now. If you want to leave that badly, I can see about having you go stay with Takeru—"

"No!" I nearly shout. "No. If I do that then he'll see—he'll know—"

"Then you just need to stay here a bit longer. I'm looking into getting the locks changed and having a deadbolt installed on the door. Once that's done you can come back home, and stay by yourself until you're healed enough to go back to school." Dad gives me a sympathetic look. "I know it's boring here, but it's only for a few days, and it's better this way."

_No, it isn't_ , I think, but I don't bother to tell him that. I know he won't understand.

  
I'm finally allowed home again. It's been three days. There are new locks on the door. Including both a chain lock and a very sturdy looking deadbolt. Even though I know it won't really help much, it still makes me feel a bit safer.

Dad wanted to stay home with me, but I told him that he'd smother me and pointed out that with the locks I'd be safe now so the station probably needed him more than I did. None of which is true, but it got him to leave. And I'd rather he leave so that _he_ will show up and punish me for not being home when he told me to, and we can just get the whole thing over with and out of the way.

I'm staring blankly at the tv, not paying any attention to the music program that's on, when I finally hear the sound that I've been both waiting for and completely dreading. A key trying to go in the lock. It doesn't fit anymore, of course, and it doesn't take him long to realize this.

"Yamato!" he hollers. "Open up!"

I stare at the door, and consider what might happen if I ignore him. He goes away and leaves me alone forever (yeah right). He waits until I have to leave, and then attacks me (probable) and possibly kills me (likely). He goes after my brother or one of my friends (I'd kill myself and succeed then).

"Yamato!" he hollers again, pounding on the door. He sounds very angry. It makes me feel frightened, and before I know it I'm up and rushing over to the door, letting him in.

His face darkens when he spots all the new locks, and he glares at me. "What is all this?" he snarls.

"I _didn't_ tell!" I pre-emptively defend myself. "I swear! My dad's been meaning to change the locks for ages, and he just finally got around to it. That's all!"

He glares at me some more, then looks back at the door suspiciously. "From now on, these stay unlocked when you're home alone, do you understand?"

I nod right away. Anything to appease him and make it easier on me.

"Fine," he says, dismissive. "Now, I'm here to teach you a lesson. One I thought you had learned last time, but it seems apparently not. Otherwise you would have been out of that hospital when I told you."

"Listen, I tried," I plead. "But my doctor—"

"Shut up!" he yells, and I'm completely caught off guard when he backhands me across the face. "Shut up," he says again. "I'm not interested in your pathetic little excuses. Now get down on your knees."

I stare at him.

"On. Your. Knees," he repeats. I comply.

It's worse this time, because I'm not sucking him off so much as he's fucking my face, one hand fisted in my hair, shoving his dick deeper and deeper into my throat. I'm continuously gagging, and trying desperately to draw breaths in through my nose, my hands clawing at his legs, wanting to shove him off, but instead it only spurs him on. He starts thrusting harder, and it seems forever before his come is hitting the back of my throat. I start coughing, choking on it a bit, but swallow it all down nonetheless. The taste hasn't improved.

At last he pulls away, and I can breathe easy again. But my relief is short-lived, because directly after he starts divesting me of my jeans and boxers, pushing me towards the couch. He doesn't even bother with my shirt, and somehow that's more humiliating than being completely naked in front of him.

Then his own jeans go down, and he's behind me, already hard again, pushing in, stretching me, splitting me. It's never gotten any easier, no matter how many times he's done it by now. I know he'll have left me bleeding and torn again when he's finished. At this point, I've almost become numb to how it makes me feel.

His thrusts are hard and fast and deep, and every so often he hits against my prostate, sending little bursts of pleasure through me that I despise. I know I'm getting hard.

I refuse to cry.

Thankfully it's not long before his hips start jerking and he's coming, splashing hot and filthy inside me. It makes me sick to my stomach, but I still won't cry. Not anymore.

I wait for him to pull out, but instead he only lies there, collapsed on top of my back. I can feel his warm breath ghosting across my neck, and I shiver. I'm still hard, but I ignore it, hoping that maybe it'll go away on its own. What is he waiting for?

"You're such a good fuck, Yamato," he suddenly whispers into my ear. I jerk slightly, startled. What is he going on about? "That sweet, tight little hole of yours... God," he moans. "Feels so good, encasing my dick, and so warm... I love it."

_Oh God_... My eyes widen in horror as I realize just what he was waiting for. Why he stayed inside me, instead of pulling out. He's making himself hard again, saying such disgusting things to me. "No," I moan, shaking my head. I'm on the verge of crying now, but still hold back. "No, please."

I feel dirty. Dirty and worthless and ashamed. I loathe myself, more than I ever have before.

"Oh yes," he says, voice husky, already half hard, and I feel a couple tears slip out and trail down my cheeks. "That's right... so fuckable, you're such a slut, you're my slut, and I love it. My little bitch, with your deliciously tight hole, you're all mine, no one else's, just mine..."

In this instant I feel like a slut. Like a common dirty whore, good only for being fucked because I deserve nothing more.

He's nearly completely hard again now, and he begins to pull out of me, only to give a slow, languid thrust back in. He moans again, and it's so lewd, so dirty-sounding that I find I'm actually embarrassed by it, for both our sakes.

I lose track of how many times he fucks me. I lose track of how many times I end up coming against my will, wishing desperately each time that I were dead. I don't really remember at what point he pulled out and threw me on the couch proper, flipping me over so he could fuck me face-to-face, my legs thrown awkwardly over his shoulders. Instead I just float, in a haze of pain and self-loathing, barely even noticing when at last he pulls out of me and starts fumbling around on the floor for his jeans.

I do, however, notice when he pulls out the knife from his pocket. "Wha—?"

"A warning," he says, putting the point to the inside of my thigh and pressing down just enough. I look down as a bead of bloods wells up. He drags the knife down, leaving a thin red line in its wake. I follow its path with my eyes, watching in morbid fascination. The pain barely even registers at this point.

He gets his jeans on, and looks down at me with cold, hard eyes. "When I tell you to do something, you do it. And remember this moment the next time you think about telling someone."

And with that he's gone, slamming the door behind him. I let out the breath I hadn't been aware of holding, and surprise myself by bursting into tears.

* * *

"Alright, that's it for me. I'm outta here. I'll see you guys tomorrow."

"See ya, Ishida. Have a good night."

"Thanks, you too." I begin to head out, anxious to get home to Yamato. It's been two hours since he last called. He was supposed to call me every hour, to let me know that he was fine and still safe. After he missed the hour, I gave him fifteen minutes and called him, but got no answer. Three more fifteen minute checks, and still nothing. I can't wait anymore. If something's happened...

I curse the new locks as I struggle to undo them, but when I get inside I see to my relief that Yamato's sleeping peacefully on the couch, fully clothed. Nothing in the area looks disturbed. I breathe out, the worry leaving me in a rush.

I just stand there for a few moments, watching him while he rests. Even though he's seventeen, in this moment he looks so much younger. Sleep has smoothed out the worry in his face, and hidden the pain that's often reflected in his eyes. Right now it's easy to pretend he's just like any other normal seventeen year old, with his usual worries of grades, crushes, friends, and band practices. Easy to pretend that he hasn't been through hell, hasn't tried to end his own life.

If only it could still be that simple.

He shifts in his sleep then, murmuring slightly. I cross the room to him and reach down, brushing back his hair. The touch seems to startle him, and he jerks awake, looking up at me in confusion. "Dad?" he mumbles, voice still thick with sleep.

"Hey," I greet him softly. "Sorry I woke you. I just got home."

"Oh..." he sits up, and looks at the clock on the wall over the tv. "Sorry, I missed my last call..."

"It's alright. I'll admit, I was worried, but I'm not surprised you fell asleep. You've been so worn out lately."

He shrugs, I guess not having any response to that.

"You're okay?" I ask him, wanting to be extra sure.

"Sure. I'm fine, Dad. No need to worry."

"Alright then. Have you eaten? I think I could use some food."

He shakes his head. "Not hungry. You go ahead. I think I just want to get some more sleep, honestly."

"Okay." I leave him there and head for the kitchen, checking the fridge for leftovers. After I managed to burn a pan while boiling nothing but water, Yamato no longer allows me to cook unsupervised.

I find some leftover tonkatsu and easily turn it into a sandwich, washing it down with one of Yamato's bottles of Ramune. When I'm done I head back into the living room to ask Yamato for his laundry, but instead I find him already asleep again.

Mentally shrugging, I leave him be and head down the hall to his room to grab it myself.

I gather up all the clothes I can find on the floor and am just about to leave when something catches my eye. I look towards his bed. There's one of our bathroom towels half-shoved under his pillow. I frown and come closer. There's a few random spots on it. They're a dark, rusty red colour.

They look a lot like dried blood.

My heart starts beating a little faster, and I realize I'm a little scared. I shift all of Yamato's clothes up under my other arm, and reach out to grab the towel. It's still damp to the touch. As if it was only used a couple of hours ago.

I can feel another headache coming on. I try not to panic, telling myself the blood on the towel could be anything, but it's hard. Still, he told me he was fine--it's not a lot of blood, and he could have injured himself in any number of ways that don't require another person.

It's easier to tell myself that than to actually believe it, though.

* * *

I miss Taichi. It's boring sitting around my apartment all day with nothing to do. I want to see my friends and my brother again. I want to hang out with my band and talk shit about nothing.

Apparently some of them have actually called, but so far Dad's kept them at bay by telling them I've got a bad case of the flu. It's only been about a week and a half, so it's a plausible (if a bit stretched thin) excuse so far. And I'm sure it's easier to believe since even Takeru hasn't been allowed to see me.

But I've been stuck in this apartment mostly alone for another three days, and I'm about to go spare. TV puts me to sleep, video games frustrate me, and I can't seem to focus on writing or practicing any songs. I've spent too much time sleeping lately, and I'm sick of it.

I'd like to go out, but I'm too scared to. Scared that I'll run into him, or worse, one of my friends. And then there's the fact that strangers will probably stare at my wrists, and I'll feel ashamed and uncomfortable and wind up fleeing back home. No, it's easier to just stay at home. Even if it means getting stuck in my thoughts again...

Far too often lately I find myself falling back into memories I never wanted. It leaves me feeling used and dirty. I want a shower.

I grab a towel from the laundry and lock myself in the bathroom, turning the water as hot as it will go. I strip and climb in, not even taking notice of the scalding temperature. I've taken too many showers this way these past few months.

I don't know how long I stay in there, staring blankly at the wall and absently scrubbing at my skin, trying to wash the taint off my soul, but when I come back to myself the water's gone cold. I shut it off, wincing as I note the raw look to my arms. Hopefully Dad won't say anything about it.

I towel off and dress in my same clothes.

I head out and go down the hall to my room, stopping short in the doorway. _He's_ there, lounging casually on my bed for all the world like he owns it. He hasn't been in my room since that second time, and seeing him sitting there, seemingly without a care in the world, I feel more violated than any of the times he's ever been inside me.

I don't even think, really. I just storm in, enraged and snarling. "What the hell are you doing in here? Get out!" I shout, and I haven't shown this much outward anger towards him since before everything began. It feels _good_. It's reckless and crazy and dangerous, and I like it.

He jumps off my bed, eyes flashing angrily. "You don't tell me what to do."

"I do when you're invading my room and my bed. Get the fuck out." Despite myself, I'm beginning to feel that familiar spark of fear again, the fear that kept me from telling someone and stopping all this madness. The fear that insists I do what he says lest he kills me.

"I don't think so. I'm not leaving until I get what I came for." He starts advancing towards me. His face is dark and ugly with rage, but even though I'm definitely afraid now, I stand my ground.

"You're not getting it. I'm through with this. I'm not going to let you do this to me anymore. _Get. Out._ " I don't know where all the courage is coming from. Courage is generally more Taichi's thing, but I suppose I can't be friends with him for six years without picking up a bit from him.

"You don't get to decide that!" he yells. "I told you before, you're mine! _Mine. I'm_ the one that decides when this ends, and it's not ending yet! I'm not letting you go!" He rushes forward suddenly, one hand reaching down into his pocket, and it only takes me a second to realize what he must be reaching for.

Shit. I turn and bolt, back down the hallway, not even sure of where I'm trying to go, just knowing I need to get away from him before he pulls that knife out. All that courage is gone now. Oh god, oh god, why did I push him?! Why did I make him angry? He's going to kill me now! I don't want to die! Not by his hand! Fuck, I've got to get out of here, _now_.

I can hear his footsteps behind me as I run down the hall, and I'm panicking, not thinking clearly. I pass the bathroom and dad's room, running into the kitchen, thankful that his grabbing his knife slowed him down and gave me a few precious seconds. If I can just get out of the apartment, out of the building, I'll be safe. He wouldn't dare do anything in public, with other people around.

Unfortunately, I'm running blindly, only thinking about getting to the door, so I completely miss the kitchen chair as I crash right into it. I go flying, landing on the tiled floor with a painful 'oof' as all the air gets knocked out of me. I don't have time though, he's right behind me, my legs are tangled up in the chair and I'm trying to get up, trying to break free, but he's on top of me now, shouting in my face, his fists are swinging wildly and the knife's still grasped tightly in one of them _and I don't want to die like this._

"Don't kill me, please don't kill me, I'm sorry, so sorry, I won't do it again, please please," I babble, hardly aware of the words coming out of my mouth, but it doesn't do any good.

" _Please_ ," I moan, but then he's stabbing the knife into my shoulder and I close my eyes, bracing myself for the pain. There is none, though, at least not at first. There's just the feel of the blood, warm and wet and growing. I hear a door slam in the distance and realize I don't feel his weight atop of me anymore. I open my eyes to find myself alone.

Slowly, I drag myself to a sitting position, wincing as I start to feel the first twinges of pain. It's a low, dull sort of throbbing, but still bearable for the moment. I'm more concerned about the blood. I need to stop it.

Somehow, I get free of the chair and climb to my feet, swaying a bit once I'm standing upright. I'm feeling a bit lightheaded. And a bit sick. I need a towel. Right.

I stumble down the hallway, back towards the bathroom. I left my towel in there after my shower. I use the hallway to brace myself. I'm really dizzy now, and when I look back behind me there's a trail of blood spots. Do all stab wounds bleed so much? It's starting to hurt a bit worse now, throbbing a little more intensely.

I keep seeing black spots dancing around me. Everything's kind of gray and faded around the edges. It's kind of interesting, except I think it means I'm about to pass about.

I'm almost there. I take another step, and fall.

* * *

There's blood all over the floor. I'm motionless in the doorway to the kitchen, just standing and staring at the frightening scene before me.

It's not really much of a scene. There's a chair tipped over on the floor, a puddle of drying blood near it, and a trail of smaller droplets leading off into the hallway.

Amazing how those two things can make my heart nearly stop.

"Yamato?" I whisper.

I'm almost afraid to follow the blood trail. Afraid of what it'll lead to me. Afraid I'll find my son at the end of it, dead.

"Yamato?" I say again, a bit louder this time. Hoping that he's still alive, still able to respond.

But there's no answer.

Screwing up my courage, I step into the kitchen, past the chair, past the puddle. Down into the hallway, looking towards the end.

"Yamato!" He's in the doorway of the bathroom, a pale crumpled heap. I hurry over to him, leaning down to check him out. I don't see the source of the blood, but I'm very relieved to hear him breathing, even if they're raspy, shallow breaths. Carefully I maneuver him onto his back, stretching him out, spotting the shoulder wound immediately. He's been stabbed.

I've got the cell halfway to my ear before I realize I've called Akira's home number instead of EMS. But at this point I don't even care.

"Kaos residence, Kaos speaking."

"Akira—" I have to stop suddenly, choking up as the enormity of the situation hits me. Yamato's been stabbed. _My son has been stabbed._ He's passed out on the bathroom floor, probably from blood loss, and barely breathing. He could die. I could lose him. I'm going through this again.

"Ishida? Hiroaki, is that you?"

Right. Gotta pull it together. Yamato needs me. "Yes. Can you—Please, meet me at the hospital right away. Yamato's been—someone stabbed him. I want you there with him."

"I'll be right there."

He disconnects, and I waste no time, immediately dialing EMS. They promise to send an ambulance right away.

  
The waiting is always the worst part. I was allowed to ride in the ambulance with him, but they rushed him away to an OR the second we arrived at the hospital, and I was left to stand alone in the hallway. Akira found me a few minutes later, and led me to a waiting room, where he got me the admittance forms to fill out, something to distract me and take my mind off Yamato.

He offered to stay and wait with me, but I shook my head no. "Please, go find Yamato. See what's going on. Make sure he's gonna be okay."

He agreed, and left. He still hasn't come back. I don't know whether to take that as a good or bad sign.

Please, let Yamato be okay. Don't let him die. I can't lose him. I can't go through that. He's all I've got left.

  
It's some hours later before Akira finds me again, standing before me looking completely exhausted. I try to read his face for clues, but he's impassive.

"Yamato?" I say quietly.

He nods. "He's fine for now. Stable. They've got him in a private room. He's still knocked out from the anaesthesia, and the morphine drip will probably have him under for most of tomorrow as well."

I nod, expecting no less. "Can I see him?" I ask, not caring about any more of the particulars. Yamato's alive and okay, that's all that matters right now. The details can come later.

"Of course. I'll take you."

I follow him down the halls to Yamato's room silently, lost in my thoughts and worry for my son. I'm very tempted to call the police after this latest incident, but I'm not sure how much good it would do.

So far Yamato hasn't talked, hasn't even admitted he's been—abused. I don't know who's hurting him. I don't know who stabbed him. There's the DNA sample they recovered from Yamato that first stay in the hospital, but with no sample to compare it to, it's likely useless. Hell, his injuries didn't even point to anything conclusive. Unless Yamato is willing to talk, there's nothing much to really go on.

This whole situation pisses me off. I feel so useless, so completely _helpless_ , and I hate it. I know I've never been the greatest father, but that I can't even protect him from something like this... I'm almost ashamed to even still call myself his father.

* * *

I come back to the world of the living slowly. The first thing I'm aware of is a steady beeping somewhere off to my right. I realize that I'm lying in a bed, most likely a hospital one. I don't feel any pain, but I'm incredibly exhausted and my head seems a bit foggy.

When I finally open my eyes, the bright light hurts and I wince, letting out a small noise of discomfort.

There's a rustle of clothes to my left, and then someone's standing over me. "Yamato?" It sounds like my dad. "You awake?"

"Mmhmm," I mumble incoherently. "...'wake..."

"How are you feeling?" Dad asks.

I look up at him, slowly adjusting to the brightness. He looks both worried and relieved, something I didn't think was possible. I pause for a moment to assess the answer to his question. "Thirsty," I finally whisper.

Immediately Dad grabs a glass of water off the bedside table, placing the straw up to my lips so I can suck. "Slowly," he warns me.

I try to do as he says, but the cool liquid feels so good sliding down, soothing my dry throat, that I can't help but drink it fast, trying to get as much as possible. He pulls it away after a moment, and I whine. "I'll give you some more shortly," he reassures. "You've been more or less out for two days though, you've gotta take it easy."

Two days? I can't even recall going to the hospital in the first place. What could be bad enough to put me here and knock me out for two days?

Dad must see the confusion written on my face, because he sighs and quietly informs me that he came home from work a few days ago to find me unconscious on the bathroom floor with a stab wound just below my shoulder.

"Wha...?" I try to think back through the haze, but it's hard. I remember something about a chair, and a towel...?

"Don't worry if you can't remember." He gives me the straw again, and I drink it down greedily. "You're still a bit doped up on the good painkillers right now. It'll start coming back as they begin to wear off."

Hmm. "High?"

He grins at that. "You were yesterday. You woke once. Not so much now though, they've stopped the morphine drip."

Oh well. "Tired," I say.

Dad smiles. It looks a bit sad. "That's not surprising. Get some more sleep for now. I'll be here when you wake again."

I frown, taking a moment to really look at him. There's two days worth of beard stubble across his jaw. His clothes are rumpled and a bit askew. His hair looks dirty and unwashed, and there's dark hollows under his eyes. I realize he's probably not left the hospital since I was brought here.

"Go home," I tell him, my voice hoarse. "Shower... change. Sleep. 'M fine."

Dad shakes his head. "I'm good right now. I don't want to leave you."

I try to give him my best glare, which under the circumstances isn't much. " _Go_ ," I insist. "Please. Want you to." I close my eyes, losing the battle to stay awake.

I'm pleased to hear the rattle of keys right before I slip back into darkness.

  
When I wake again, it's dark out and I'm alone. Dad must still be back at the apartment. Hopefully he's sleeping.

I feel a lot more clearheaded this time. I can remember what happened, why I must be in the hospital. I remember the fight, getting stabbed... trying to get to the bathroom to stop the blood before I passed out. Apparently I hadn't made it.

I just... I can't believe he actually stabbed me. Sure, he threatened to tons of times, and of course I've always been afraid of that threat, but still there was some part of me... some part that believed the old him had to be in there somewhere and that he wouldn't actually do it.

I feel tears begin to roll down my cheeks, but I make no move to wipe them away.

Why? Why is this happening to me? What did I ever do to deserve such pain and hurt, to be abused in such a manner? It isn't fair. I didn't ask for this, I don't want any of it.

I know I'm just wallowing in self-pity here, but right now, I really don't care. My whole life has been ruined—controlled, changed forever—all by one person's hand. Someone I used to trust, hell, used to love and call a close friend. And he betrayed me for it. He took that friendship and trust and threw it all back in my face. I'll never get it back. I don't _want_ it back.

I hate him. I hate myself. Hate that I let him manipulate me, hate that I was too much of a coward to fight back or tell or do anything other than just let it happen. I hate that I hate him. I want my old friend back. I want things to go back to the way they were before. Before everything went to hell.

I roll over, burying my face into my pillow to muffle the sobs.

  
The apartment looks different this time. I'm not sure why. I was only in the hospital for a week, I really wasn't gone that long. But it seems—I don't know. Bigger, somehow. Emptier.

"Alright there Yamato?"

I nod, walking over to the couch and sitting down. I'm feeling a bit lost. I don't really know what to do with myself. I counted back while I was stuck in bed all that time. I haven't seen anyone other than my Dad and Dr. Kaos— _he_ doesn't count—in seventeen days. Dad told everyone that what we thought was the flu turned out to be mono, and that I'm still too sick to visit. It's funny, I suppose, but I'm not laughing.

I don't know how much longer anyone will buy it.

At least the stitches in my wrists were taken out finally, so as long as I wear long sleeves to hide the one visible scar I can go back to school whenever I feel up to it. The cast can be easily explained away.

"Can I get you anything?" Dad's hovering around me anxiously, looking a bit lost himself. "A drink, something to eat maybe?"

I shake my head, silent.

"You sure?"

"I'm fine," I say softly. "Can we just, I don't know, sit here and watch some tv?"

"Sure," he replies, just as softly. "We can do that." He sits down next to me, grabbing the remote and flipping the tv on. I pull my feet up on the couch and curl into his side, taking comfort in his presence. He puts an arm around my shoulder, mindful of the wound, and begins to surf through the channels, eventually settling on some comedic movie we've both seen and liked before.

I close my eyes and just bask in the feeling of safety, only half listening to the tv. At some point I fall asleep.

  
I'm alone on the couch the next morning. There's a blanket draped over me, but no other sign of Dad. "Dad?" I call, feeling slightly panicked. Surely he didn't go to work and leave me alone in the apartment. Did he?

"Yes?" The relief I feel when he pops his head in from the kitchen is immense.

I muster up a smile. "Nothing. Just didn't know where you were." Then I pause, suspicious. "Wait. You're not in there _cooking_ , are you?"

Dad laughs. "Just coffee."

We spend the day together marathoning movies. It's kind of nice now that Dad's quit pressuring me to talk about what's going on with me. He's usually so busy with work and me with school and my band that we don't get a lot of time together. I can almost make myself forget everything and just pretend it's some random weekend day where we're just having some father/son bonding time and enjoying ourselves.

It all grinds to a halt when the phone rings. It's somewhere around four in the afternoon. Dad reaches over and picks up the receiver while I pause the movie. I watch as he listens to whoever's on the other end. It's not a good phone call, because his face is getting increasingly unhappy and he keeps interjecting random protests every so often. They don't seem to be doing any good. Finally he sighs and says, "Look, I understand the problem, but I can't leave right now. My kid's too sick, I can't leave him home alone."

Ah. It's a work problem. I should have known. "Dad, you should go," I say softly.

"Hold on," he says into the phone. He covers the end of the receiver and looks at me. "No way, buddy. I'm not leaving you here alone anymore. Not after last time."

"You can't stay home with me forever," I point out. "And last time was my fault. I'll be fine this time. Just go. It'll only be for an hour or two."

He narrows his eyes at me. "How exactly was last time _your_ fault?"

I swallow, and look away from him. "I... I might have undone all the locks after you left," I mumble.

" _What_?" He's incredulous, but I still don't look at him. "Never mind. We'll talk about _that_ later. Look at me."

I do so hesitantly.

"If I leave you alone here for a couple hours, do you absolutely swear to me that you'll lock up everything and leave them locked? And you'll call me every half hour until I say that I'm coming back home. And if anyone with an intent to hurt you tries to get in, you will call for help _immediately_."

I look him straight in the eyes and nod. "I swear it, Dad."

I'm not sure, really. I stood up to him last time, and got stabbed for it. If he shows up again, I don't know if I can stay strong and not let him in. He'll always find some other way to get to me.

I can't tell any of this to Dad though, or else he won't leave. And I know his crisis at work must be important. Sure, he spends more time there than necessary most days, but they've only ever called him at home for true emergencies.

And it's only for an hour or two. Probably he won't even show up yet. I'll be fine.

Dad lets out another sigh and uncovers the phone, still looking torn. "Alright. I'll be there as soon as possible. Don't do _anything_ until I get there." He hangs up the phone and looks at me. The movie's long since shut itself off. "Keep that door _locked_. I'm trusting you, Yamato. Please don't let me regret it."

"You won't. Go on, Dad. It'll be okay."

Once he's gone I put the chain on and double check the other locks are all done properly. Then I head into the kitchen and grab a chair from the table. I drag it back into the living room and shove the back of it under the doorknob, leaving it tilted at an odd looking angle.

It doesn't make me feel any safer. Maybe he won't get me today, or tomorrow, or the next day, but at some point I'm going to have to go back out there and live my life again. And unless I speak out against him, he'll always be out there, waiting for the right moment to strike. And next time I may not be so lucky to escape with only a shoulder wound.

But for today, there's nothing more I can really do. I've done what I can to keep him out, the rest just depends on the strength of my courage. Completely abandoning the movie Dad and I were watching, I head back into the kitchen, intent on getting something to eat. I rummage around in the cabinets and finally settle on a bowl of dry cereal. No one's exactly had time or energy to go grocery shopping lately. I don't even want to think about how long that milk's been in the fridge.

I finish eating, and decide to go try and nap on the couch until it's time to call Dad. I don't feel like doing much of anything. I just want Dad to get back home. I grab the blanket off the back and settle down, mindful of both my shoulder and my wrist.

I'm just starting to drift off when I hear it—the distinct sound of the doorknob turning. Someone's trying to get in. I bolt upright, eyes wide, and stare at the door. He doesn't even have to speak for me to know it's him. Blind sided by panic, I throw back the blanket and practically vault myself off the couch, running through the kitchen and down the hall, diving into the first open door—my dad's room. I slam the door and lock it, then jump onto his bed, frantically pulling covers aside and flinging them over my entire body.

I feel safer this way, far enough away that I can't hear him pounding on the door or yelling at me to let him in. It's easier to not be as scared when I don't have to hear him threatening me.

I stay huddled on dad's bed for quite some time, frozen by my terror. I don't even dare hardly breathe. I have no idea if he's still out there, or if he's given up and gone away. I don't really care. My mind is racing, jumbled thoughts tumbling through it, so many I can barely make sense of it all.

I don't know what I'm doing, standing up to him like this again. I'm just so tired of it all, so tired of living with all this fear and pain and betrayal... so tired of being in turmoil, tired of hating myself... I realize now, I don't want to keep this secret anymore. I don't want to handle it alone. I want to tell someone, to make it all stop.

If I just tell Dad, trust him enough to help me, then maybe it actually _can_ stop and I can get my life back. Dad's told me before he's more than willing to go to the police, and that the hospital had a DNA sample and some other evidence from that first visit. Apparently they'd done some kind of evidence kit on me while I was unconscious, just in case. Back when no one was really sure what was going on yet.

That, along with a name... it'd probably be enough for the police to actually do something about him. Assuming I can be brave enough to say his name. I've avoided saying it for so long, not wanting to associate it with him, not wanting to believe that the person I was friends with and the person hurting me now are really the same person.

But it's been months now, and he hasn't changed back... I think I've got to face that he's not going to. That he's lost to me now, no matter how much that thought hurts.

* * *

I furrow my brow in frustration as I bang my knee on one of our kitchen chairs. It's sitting directly behind the door, blocking the path into the living room, and in the darkening room I didn't notice it.

"Shit." I curse the chair as I rub my aching knee. "What the hell are you doing in here, anyways?" I ask it. Of course I get no reply.

Frowning, I pick up the chair and take it back into the kitchen. I set it down at the table, where I then realize another chair is missing.

"What the hell?" I mutter.

I hear footsteps padding down the hall behind me, and I turn to spot Yamato coming up behind me, the missing chair held in his hands.

I raise an eyebrow at him. "Were you perhaps performing some kind of strange sacrificial ritual that happened to require kitchen chairs?"

He blushes slightly, shaking his head. "It's nothing."

I give him a strange look, and then decide to leave him alone. He kept his promise to call and leave the doors locked, and that's enough for me. "I brought some take-out home for supper," I tell him, changing the subject. I hold up the paper bag still in my hand. "Teriyaki burgers. You hungry?"

He eyes the bag with a mild interest, and nods. I watch in amusement as he carries the chair over to the table and then promptly sits down in it. I set the bag down and sit as well, and start pulling out food.

We eat in silence, the mood rather solemn. He seems to have something on his mind, and there's a strange blend of emotions playing across his face as he thinks. I'm not really sure how to interpret them.

Once we're both done, I stand and gather up our trash, tossing it in the bin. I consider heading to the living room to watch a bit of tv, or maybe finish our movie from earlier, but then I notice Yamato has yet to move from the table.

I sit back down and look across at him. "Alright buddy?"

He shakes his head but says, "Yeah, I'm fine."

I blink at that one. I wait for another few quiet minutes, then try again. "I'm willing to listen if you want to talk about anything."

"I know, Dad," he murmurs, but it's not said in the exasperated tone he usually employs of late. It's a good sign, but I don't want to push him and make him retreat again, so I stay quiet and wait for him to talk.

"Ken."

"What?" He speaks so softly, so suddenly that I don't really hear him.

He bites down on his lip, visibly swallowing. "It's Ken. Ichijouji Ken. H-he's the one. That stabbed me. He—he's been... hurting me."

I inhale, taking a deep breath, and then let it back out slowly. I'm horrified. Of course I know very well who Ken is. He and Yamato had become very close friends over the past few years, nearly as close as Yamato and Taichi are. Ken was even one of the ones who'd called and asked after him. He'd wished him a speedy recovery.

He's the one that's been hurting my son so horribly?

"God, Yamato... " I don't really know what to say. "I'm so sorry." I want to kill Ken.

* * *

It's out. It's finally, finally out. I'm both relieved and terrified. Dad looks blown away. He doesn't seem to know what to say. He keeps opening his mouth and then closing again, not able to find any words.

It's alright. I don't know what to say either.

We sit quietly for a bit. "Are you going to tell the police?" I ask eventually.

"Only if you want me to," Dad answers me, serious. "It means you'll have to talk to them, tell them exactly what happened, what he did to you."

I nod, having already realized this. "I—I think I can. I want it to stop, Dad. I want him to go away and never hurt me again."

"He will," Dad promises. "He will, Yamato. And—thank you. For telling me."

I give him a tremulous smile, ignoring the sudden lump in my throat. A few tears slip out and slide down my face, but I ignore those too. "You're welcome."

No more are there untold secrets between us. Somehow, we'll make it through whatever comes next.

It's over.

**Author's Note:**

> When I originally wrote this back in 2001, I had Ken's age upped to fifteen. At the time I was unaware of their correct ages, and thought he'd only be thirteen if I went with his "correct" age, so I added two years to make it slightly less creepy.
> 
> I really don't know how I had their ages so screwed up back then.


End file.
